Evgeny Grinko: Music Should Tell a Story
Kadıköy’s cats, sunsets over Moda, and a piano that’s been given its rightful place… We sat down for a very special conversation with Evgeny Grinko, the acclaimed musician who recorded his latest album right here in Istanbul.
Evgeny Grinko is one of those rare artists who can translate the purest emotions into sound. He turns silence into melody and solitude into music, crafting works that have found a devoted audience in Turkey ever since his iconic piece Valsefirst touched hearts here years ago. Since then, Grinko has performed in dozens of Turkish cities, wandering their streets, meeting their people, and—true to form—befriending their cats. Now, with his new album Winter Moonlight, he invites listeners into a different kind of story—one that blends memory, intimacy, and a profound sense of place.
In this candid interview, Grinko opens up about his creative journey, his deep affection for Istanbul’s neighborhoods, and the bittersweet memory of his beloved late cat, Mr. Squirrel.
Your new album, Winter Moonlight, is deeply moving. How did it take shape? What inspired you during its creation?
Even the smallest details from my childhood—fragments I’ve carried with me for decades—can spark a song or even an entire album. These memories are like doors into music. While instrumental works can stand on their own, I believe they should be more than just a collection of sounds. They should carry a story. That’s why the titles of my compositions are so important: they’re signposts for me and for the listener, guiding us deeper into the world behind the music.
Where did you record the album?
I’ve often recorded in different countries, but not this time. Winter Moonlight was recorded in 2023 in my home studio here in Istanbul (laughs).
You’re known as a pianist, yet you began your musical life on guitar. Why didn’t you continue with it?
Actually, I started with both guitar and drums. But at some point, I began searching for new sounds—something that could better convey the emotions I wanted to express. The piano became that instrument for me. It has a power, especially when it comes to transmitting romantic feelings, that I find unmatched.
The song “Orange Marmalade” references both Alice in Wonderland and Russian metal marmalade jars, while your album Tiny Mouse Tales was inspired by a mouse you spotted in a forest. Has Turkey given you similar inspirations?
Absolutely. I’m a huge animal lover, and after moving to Turkey I became even more aware of the cats and dogs living on the streets. Cats, especially, seem to appear around every corner—it still surprises me and always makes me smile. One of the cats I cared for here had a thick, bushy tail that reminded me of a squirrel, so I named him “Mr. Squirrel.” Sadly, he passed away. To honor his memory, I wrote a piece for him on my latest album, simply titled Mr. Squirrel.
How’s your Turkish these days? What were the first words you learned?
Unfortunately, my Turkish isn’t very good yet, and that frustrates me. I do know some words, but I need to work harder. The very first ones I learned were “merhaba” and “teşekkürler.” And, of course, “mercimek çorbası” (lentil soup)—because I really love lentil soup (laughs).
Which Turkish musicians do you admire most?
I wouldn’t say “influenced” exactly, but I deeply appreciate Barış Manço’s recordings from the 1970s. The psychedelic sound of that era is incredible—there’s an indescribable spirit in those albums. They never get old, and I can listen to them endlessly. His work was ahead of its time in many ways.
Your popularity in Turkey keeps growing, yet you’re a very reserved person. How do you handle the attention?
It’s a wonderful feeling to be recognized, and I’m grateful to see more people listening to my music. I truly thank each and every one of them. But yes, I’m naturally a private person. Crowds and situations where I’m the focus make me a bit uncomfortable—it’s not about the people themselves, it’s just my personality. I hope no one misunderstands that. I have the utmost respect for those who show me kindness. And whenever someone asks for a photo, I always say yes.
You once said it wasn’t easy to find places in Istanbul that resonated with you, but that you eventually did.
That’s true. I spend far more time in Istanbul now than I did six or seven years ago, and over time I’ve discovered the places that really speak to me emotionally. Kadıköy—and especially Moda—holds a special place in my heart. Watching the sun rise and set over the water there, strolling past the old buildings and under the old trees, walking down its quiet streets—it all gives me peace. I’ve played concerts in many Turkish cities and stayed in some for longer periods. I can’t name a single favorite, but I believe each city has its own charm.
You recently turned 40. How does it feel to reach this milestone? Do you still feel like the Evgeny of your twenties?
I’d say I get tired more easily these days, but in my mind I still feel 25. Right now, age is just a number for me. I still have time before I’ll need to slow down or take long breaks. I feel full of energy—and I’m not ready to let go of that just yet.
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